


I would walk 500 miles (but I still can't reach you)

by teenietinyhedgehog



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Awkwardness, Dreams and Nightmares, Drunkenness, Light Angst, M/M, PTSD, Self-Hatred, Slow Build, also these assholes make me feel everything on the emotinal spectrum, because Murphy, but the hiatus is much too long for one shots, crossing the desert takes time, mainly nightmares, probably many more triggers, this was supposed to be a plot bunny, you know what's up, you've watched the show
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-01
Updated: 2015-04-08
Packaged: 2018-03-20 18:02:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3659853
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teenietinyhedgehog/pseuds/teenietinyhedgehog
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So he can't cope with everything regarding Mount Weather. So he can't afford to lose any more men.<br/>So this is insane. He's not doing this for Murphy. He's just trying to salvage what's left of his sanity.</p><p>Or</p><p>Bellamy Blake has a hero complex. Which is why he decides to look for 12 outcast delinquents instead of being generally useless around camp due to his lack of sleep.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Well, first fic. I'll try not to twist these characters out of their natural shape too much. Let's hope it doesn't bore you out of your mind. Thank you for reading.

The boys were back. The girls as well of course, but that doesn't have that nice of a ring to it now, does it?

They had clawed their way out of that godforsaken mountain, they had crawled over the corpses of innocents, they have been bloodied, battered, betrayed. They lost some people. Yet here they stood (well, some couldn't, so they sat instead) at Camp Jaha in the wreckage of the Arc and they licked their wounds, they mended what was torn to shreds and tried desperately to fix the unfixable. All they had was hope. The truce was broken now, but the mountain men were dead, so it didn't really matter.

Bellamy felt as if someone had pulled the rug out from under his feet. He was exhausted, confused and he sure as hell wasn't up for being a leader at the moment. 

After Clarke left him at the gate, he was dumbfounded. Wrung our both physically and mentally, he went to check on just his closest friends. Raven was handling her injury with her usual stubbornness, although Wick was doing his best to make her rest at least for a little while. Jasper was nowhere in sight, but looking for him wouldn't be the brightest idea. Monty was wrapped up in a blanket and was sitting around a fire with a group of survivors from the mountain. Abby was reluctantly getting her treatment while Kane hovered around the tents of medical. All around him were relieved faces, marred with slightly crooked smiles, as if the people couldn't believe that this was finally over. There were also a lot of people mourning. The grief was plastered on their dirty faces and seemed to weigh them down even more than the physical exertion. After the missile and the marrow transplant subjects some faces were missing. They were like gaping holes in the sky. Some saw light in them and used their faith to push through and others... Others were still gasping, caught in the acid fog seeping through these holes. 

The camp went to sleep a few hours before dawn. Bellamy was worried for Clarke, but didn't have the strength to stay first watch. Not that the guards would let him anyway. So he slept. Or tried to. For the first time in years he had nightmares. Horrid images of torture, if being bled to death, of being stabbed with 18 poisoned knives plagued him all night and he couldn't shake the cold sweat even when he finally got up. At least Octavia was doing well. He tried to keep his hands busy and mindlessly hunted and stood watch for a couple of days. But as his shift ended, he dreaded coming back to his tent. Bellamy never knew what was in store for the night - grounders, reapers, Cage, Tsing, sometimes even Finn. He was losing sleep and it was affecting his abilities, and he couldn't stand it anymore. 

What bothered him most was that everyone seemed to take notice, judging by the concerned looks coming his way. Kane confronted him about it once, but Bellamy managed to shake him off. Abby was more of a challenge, especially after he got clawed pretty badly while hunting once. Raven was more upfront.  
'Are you sure you're okay, Bellamy? You look out of it lately' she said to him after his fourth sleepless night.  
'Everything's fine, Raven, how are the new walkie-talkies coming along?'

He lied. Naturally. Showing weakness wasn't really an option when you were trying to rebuild a civilised society after all that happened. After the fifth night of terror he decided he needed help. So he opted to search for Murphy. After all, he must have had plenty of experience with this problem. Bellamy searched the entire camp and found no trace of him. Earlier he might have ignored it, Murphy could've just been scouting the woods or pissing someone off for all he cared, but he wasn't. His last resort was to finally ask Kane about it. 

'Have you seen Murphy around, I can't find him anywhere?'  
'Son,' Kane started and paused. His face fell, his expression grim.  
'What is going on, why are you son-ing me all of a sudden?'  
'He went with Thelonius to look for the City of Light. None of the 12 people who left has come back yet.' Kane uttered carefully.  
'The City of what? When did they leave?'  
'About two weeks ago. Thelonius said they had to cross the dead zone to find it.'  
'Did you agree to this suicide mission?' Bellamy's patience was wearing thin.  
'No, they ran away'  
'You let them run away. 12 men with 12 guns.' There was a hint of unadulterated rage in his tone at this point.  
'We had more important tasks at hand, as you probably are aware.' Bellamy couldn't argue with that. The pungent smell of blood still filled his lungs.

Brilliant, so Murphy was gone. Again. Great. No rest for the wicked apparently.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Abby is a responsible adult. Sadly, no body wants to be patronized anymore.

       Bellamy woke up. In a cage. The fluorescent lights pricked his eyes like needles. There was a dull ache in his joints, probably on account of the fact that he didn't get to use them that much nowadays. His bones felt as if they were splitting in half lengthwise, but he couldn't bring himself to care as his head was being more of a bother. He felt somewhat feverish, his skin was tinted gray and was cool to the touch. He was sweating like a pig, although he was severely dehydrated. There were bruises blooming on his thighs, stomach, chest. No open wounds. They had no use of him losing blood. They needed every last drop of it. Like vampires, the mountain men fed on outsiders, assimilated them until there was nothing left but an empty shell. They left them barely alive, not always lucid, but healthy enough to produce blood. As the doors of the harvest chamber opened, he instinctively scrambled to the back of the cage. It took a second to realize what he had just done, what they have reduced him too. If his people could see him now... They'd be appalled, he could imagine their repulsed faces. Murphy would sneer, he'd cackle and mock him, never let him live it down. So he relaxed. He moved back to the front of the cage. He shook the bars. The grounder girl didn't deserve this. He had to get out, help Clarke, save everyone. The world was a comforting, grounding weight on his sturdy shoulders, covered in purple blotches. After all they always took the most lively ones, didn't they?

_This was different. His body was ripped open in various places, never getting the chance to close its wounds. The gaping holes in his flesh were dripping, the blood trickling all over the table, a dark red slobbery mess. He could see hands prying him open, clean, steady hands taking out his core. Taking him apart and never putting him back together. His mind was just as scattered, he didn't have the will to fight anyone anymore. Everything was hazy and distant. He could barely make out the drill whispering in the distance. The screams were just too pained, too loud. Huh, he knew that voice._

         Bellamy awoke as he realized that the animal that was yelling itself hoarse was indeed him. The shock was back and he was heaving before he knew it. Breaths were leaving his dry throat and he was gasping desperately. His panic and the lack of air were caught in a vicious cycle that left him lightheaded. He was lucky Monty found him that night or he might have just drowned in his own conscience.

        _His lips were so dry that he didn't even feel the skin peeling off for the last day. He hasn't eaten in four days, hasn't had water in the last two, hasn't slept in god know how long. Bellamy was done with being brave, with sacrificing anything and everything for the good of the people. Yet here he was, in the midst of the desert, following a madman on his way to a non-existent promised land. You know what, maybe if he beat himself to death with that staff, he might find peace. A punch that landed square on his collarbone took him out of his reverie. "Oh don't you fucking dare stop, I'll tie you to the cart and by the neck and drag you in the sand if you don't get off your ass right about now" he looked up to see the furrowed brows of Murphy's annoyed, horribly sun-burnt face.  
_

      Well, that was new. He usually got mutilated and/or hanged from a tree in those dreams. At least he was angry and not scared shitless now. So he got out of bed, put his boots on and went on a walk. He came back with a few knives, some bullets, provisions, and a bottle of moonshine. He packed his things with deadly concentration and the sheer force of will that kept him awake. Bellamy then invited one of the female guards that got off her shift into his tent. They got properly shitfaced. He kissed her sloppily for a while. She seemed to enjoy it. He sent her away when it dawned on him that no distraction could put his mind off of this.

      Abby came looking for him in the morning.She was on edge from the moment she lifted the flap of his tent.

'I talked to Kane about your discussion earlier this week. I also asked him to relieve you of some of your duties, as you seem inept at carrying them out properly. Is there anything you want to tell me, Bellamy?' she couldn't sound more mum if she tired. Her hands on her hips, a determined look plastered on her face, she was the epitome of concern.

'We had this same talk last time I got hurt during a hunt. I'm not doing it again. Tell Kane not to dismiss me and to put me back on my regular shifts. I'm fine.' Bellamy scoffed as he tried to sit properly on his bed. He took a seat on the floor instead, as his head was spinning so standing wasn't an option and the uncontrollable urge to projectile vomit then and there was only fortified by the reminiscence of his previous night. 

'If you are, you'll have no problem taking the physical evaluation all of the cadets take later this... what is it again - afternoon, right?' Was she trying to sass him into compliance? Because the look of complacency on her face as he realized he had missed the morning training of the newly recovered kids sure was suggesting that.

'Why are you doing this, Abby?' The tiredness was steadily becoming part of his personality nowadays. He almost stopped caring about that the first week in. Almost.

'Because you need help. It's not wrong to ask for it.' _Here we go. Stop fighting it._

'There isn't anyone around here that can help me with this.' _Good boy, admit your weakness, you worthless piece of crap, let her boss you around. Mother or daughter, what difference does it make._

'Maybe if you tried to talk to us-'  _Yeah, no._

'Maybe if you took care of your own business as chancellor and didn't concern yourself with everyone's irrelevant problems, things would be running smoothly around here. And as such I want you to grant me permission to execute a rescue mission.' _Wait what? This was not the plan, idiot._

'A rescue mission. To save whom exactly?' **Never let it be said that Chancellor Griffin couldn't keep her cool.**

'Jaha. And Murphy. The twelve people with them.' **Scratch that last comment, her poker face sucks.**

'I can't let you-'

'You don't have to. If you don't allow me to do this officially, I'll carry it out just as efficiently under the radar.'

'Bellamy, you can't do this, you're in no condition to go through all that. No one knows how harsh the conditions are out there.'

'We all do, Abby, we've been out of this camp before. You sent us down, you should know that.' **Boom. Bullseye.**

'I won't let you set foot out of the gates, I've no more men to lose. If you try to walk out alone, I'll send them after you. If you find accomplices, you all would be set for trial and punished as the Charta recommends. Do not test me.'  _Got a death wish, boy?_   **Nah, just the wish to escape.**   _Same thing._   **Apparently.**

'Understood.'

'Good, now get out, you're up next in the smoke room.'

 

        He passed the physical with great difficulty. Kane was the only one who didn't throw a pitying glance his way as he got out. Him and the girl from the night before. She kneed him in the guts. 

        Bellamy played nice for a few days. The thought that the 14 could be dying out there was nagging him, but he managed somehow. He tried not to be sober, except when he was expected to work shifts at the gate. He was losing sleep constantly (which is to say he didn't sleep at all for 3 days straight) and deteriorating faster now. Girls wouldn't even risk getting anywhere near his tent. So that's what being pushed to the outer edge of society feels like. **_Nicely done, asshole._**

Dawn was raking its fingers through the wavy hair of the cloudy sky. Bellamy woke Raven up to get her to turn the electric fence off. 

'Can't sleep, need to take a walk outside.' _Bullshit, Bellamy, and she sees right through you._ **Yeah well, I'm carrying a backpack stuffed with provisions and water, not that hard to do.**

'Hey, be careful.' Solemn face, tired smile. _Manic grin on your side_  'I'll hold her back for as long as possible, ok?'

'Yeah, ok, thank you. Take care, Raven.'

'I will. Go now.'

        _Here we go._ **Start fighting. _Who am I kidding,_   _you never really stopped, did_ _you?_**

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Excuse the lack of proof reading, it's 1 AM here. Hope you enjoyed it, I had an idea albeit crappily executed.


	3. Chapter 3

             That was unexpected. Murphy watched the entire video a second time in an attempt at finding out what the hell had happened to the poor bastard. All in vain, he just had to witness the guy's brain artfully splattering on the couch cushions once more. He belatedly took notice that he was resting his arm on that aforementioned couch cushion and flinched away from it. Well, the guy was dead, he didn't have any idea as to why. Frankly, he didn't think this was a reasonable way out of any problem. Sure, he used to have self-destructive tendencies. It was kind of inevitable, carrying in mind the way his mum was after his dad died. If he didn't get driven mad from grief, he was running amok because of her ruthless, cold demeanor. Let alone the fact that she left him in debt, that she tried to strangle him once while she was drunk because he was 'a useless bastard that she never wanted and would have traded for his dad if she could have him back'. He would have traded himself too. He still would. He hurt himself some, but not enough so anyone would take notice of it or so that it would hinder his skillful, quick hands. There weren't many means of him getting food that didn't involve Nigel in one way or another. He stole and traded with her. Small devices, ID cards, never medicine. She liked him because he worked viciously and didn't have any scruples about doing illegal things to get what he needed. Dull, rusty razor blades and pills where etched into his childhood and he tried not to care, to numb the pain, to pretend he didn't feel sorry for himself for quite some time. Nowadays the scars on his body finally matched the ones on his tortured mind and he knew he couldn't deny the affliction as it was out there for anyone to see. The grounders and their interrogation methods had nothing on the resentment he felt at being banished. The marks the rope left on his neck faded completely, yet he woke up at night with his hands clawing at his own neck, drawing in ragged breaths that burn their way down his sore throat. He failed the only person who tolerated him by letting him massacre a village because he couldn't hold him back or take his gun. Those two weak hands kept Bellamy from falling down a cliff. Murphy had been a disappointment for as far as he could remember. He couldn't recall a moment when that bothered him so much before they fell down from the sky. On the Ark he was a nobody with no perspective of ever becoming a somebody. On the ground he had a chance. To shape his own fate. To play nice and redeem himself. To be useful. To be needed. To prove his mother wrong. Who knows, maybe even to be wanted. Murphy blew it. He believed the mantra 'whatever the hell me want, whenever the hell we want'. Breaking the rules, being a little rebel - that he could do, that he knew. It was easy because it was thoughtless. He didn't have to think of a greater good than his own. He had read too many books on the Ark, that was the problem. They portrayed realities with infinite possibilities to be and do good. They told you what that implied and guided you through. They said you could overcome anything, anyone. Well, what of overcoming one's self? Murphy was his own worst enemy and Hamlet taught him nothing meaningful, no matter how many times he read it. Shakespeare must have forgot what it's like to be young and hopeless and lost. Maybe he never knew. Being the villain who saw himself as the hero was tough. At the Sky Box he finally started to sympathize with the bad guy. Then Bellamy happened. He gave him power and responsibility, as if he thought Murphy could actually be trusted with those things. He wished Murphy's conscience back into existence. Murphy was raw emotion at the start, Bellamy reigned him in. Believed in his ability to fight his way through everything and survive. Made use of him. He became the hero's sidekick. Bellamy's black knight. His loyal lap dog that ate right out of his hand (that was also kept at a fair distance from his lap, unlike everyone else). More like Bellamy's battering ram. No one cared if it got demolished in the midst of battle, as long as it served its purpose. Murphy wasn't content with being collateral damage. He craved attention (even negative), trust, belief more than water, more than food, more than life itself and it terrified him to no end. All he had managed to keep at bay for years came flooding in when he met Bellamy and he couldn't help himself but turn into putty. He could die for that guy. He had tried taking himself out of his misery before and got cold feet every time. A noose felt familiar on his neck by that point. This was different. He could die at his command, but he would also live for him even if that was the tougher call. It was one of those endless possibilities and he screwed up even before the rebel king managed to fuck it all up by letting him hang on that tree and kicking the crate.  He'd kicked the ground from under his feet back then and hell, Murphy felt like a child, he was panicking. The indifference made Bellamy's face seem unnaturally grotesque. Where there was always emotion, everything turned suddenly blank, his features carefully schooled into nothingness, a void that was sucking the air out of Murphy's lungs faster than that belt. Bellamy bared an uncanny resemblance to one of his beloved roman statues in that moment - all carved out of cool stone. Later when Murphy strung him up he came to the conclusion he was actually hollow, a hot air balloon, but at first... A roman statue. He knew that face from when his father was floated. The guards had it on the entire time, surprisingly none of them gloated even though they were a poor family, even though they were lowly in comparison to them. It made Murphy sick to the stomach back then, the lack of compassion and evident pity leaving a rancid taste in his mouth. It appalled him even more now that he himself had had the opportunity to try it on.

           He got himself another cracker and left his drink untouched on the table. The need to check the perimeter was overwhelming and no one could blame him for the paranoia. He found a stack of loaded weapons and ammunition in one of the rooms, a bed with crisp white sheets beneath at least ten shelves of quality literature, a bathroom with a shower and cleaning supplies, a first aid kit, CDs dating a few centuries back, a kitchen stocked with supplies and cookware, an inflatable boat, a wardrobe. The distinct lack of anything even remotely threatening was fucking suspicious and Murphy went around snooping a second and a third time just to be sure. Nothing. Just deafening silence filled with a song about werewolves that was obviously on repeat. No traces of humans whatsoever. Murphy felt positively creeped out. Regardless, since he had nothing left to lose and could not pass up on that once in a lifetime (at least on the ground) chance, he grabbed a clean towel and one of those fancy rifles and made his way to he bathroom. Against all better judgement he didn't leave the door open. What if Jaha found him? He was so not risking having his junk on display for that madman. He cleaned his open wounds, which were a meager few (well, that's a first) and peeled his clothes off. Most of them were torn in at least three places and he mourned them for a good five seconds before dumping them on the floor unceremoniously. The first five minutes he spent figuring out what all the different knobs were for. The next five he tried to get the water to come out at least a lighter shade of brown. Then he proceeded to adjust the temperature. A feat in itself was that he managed to get under the shower head without slipping on the tiles. The grime was finally washing away for the first time in what felt like forever. The dark swirls were spiraling down the drain and he watched with unabashed satisfaction. After a few minutes Murphy got bored and decided to quench his thirst. He then spent some time under the hot spray with his mouth agape. His jaw started to ache and he felt like he was going to projectile his insides on the floor before he stopped drinking. He washed his hair three times and sincerely hoped to find a comb in the foreseeable future as it was tied in knots a sailor would probably be proud of. After a thorough wash he felt more like a human being. He even managed to wash his teeth, which was a blessing from the high heavens. He patted himself dry, bandaged himself with clean bandages and tried some clothes on. By the end of the ritual Murphy was dancing around the pool table in a three piece suit while singing along to Nicki Minaj, whoever that was, all previous concerns forgotten. His hair was held back with a diamond tiara, a few unruly strands falling in front of his eyes and he had a gun holstered on his hip (so much for sticking dangerous objects in your pants). He fooled around some more, ate some dried fruit and locked the door to the outside. The music turned itself off after he took a book out of the shelf in the master bedroom. Murphy made himself comfortable on the bed and prepared to read. 'Lord of the Flies'. Fitting. He fell asleep before he even had the chance to finish the second page. A female voice startled him into wakefulness after a good ten hours of blissful rest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I don't know what I'm doing with this story. I also have no beta, so that explains the general chaos in the plotline and the varying POVs. Leave me all of your magnificent opinions on this (like pretty please, I'm lost)


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I took some time to consider my many, many ideas about this and I think I somehow managed to fuse them into something vaguely coherent.

             Murphy didn't even have time to blink the sleep away from his eyes as he groped blindly for his knife underneath the pillow. He didn't even attempt to stalk into the living room, just burst in. No one. Not a single person in sight. Relief flooded him. So it was a voice message. Just a recording. _Calm down. You could be wrong, idiot, someone might be sneaking on you. Focus._ The voice sounded again. It reverberated around the room, clashing against the walls with a hollow ring, the waves coming back relentless, caged. Murphy's blood was roaring into his ears. The sound of it was deafening. 

            "Hello, Jonathan Murphy, I'm A.L.I.E. I see you've made yourself at home in my late husband's loft. Do not worry, you can stay as long as you wish. I would advise you against going outside, you are certain to be putting yourself in mortal peril again if you decide to do so. I will contact you in the future, we have a lot to discuss. Enjoy your stay. Be my rather unexpected guest. Oh, and what do your people say? May we meet again."

             "What the hell do you know about 'my' people? And who are you anyway?" he slams his fist against the cold surface of the black screen. No video, no face behind those words. His shoulders slumped helplessly. Murphy felt like wailing until his vocal chords tore - he finally thought he had something good, secure. She hadn't threatened him per se, but he couldn't risk being stranded here and eventually dying like those kids in the mountain. He _had_ to leave. So he slugs a big gulp out of the glass he left at the counter _last night for fuck's sake_  and starts packing. Essentials like food and some water bottles, clothes, weapons in a big backpack alongside a tent and a sleeping bag he dug out last night. (He was wondering if he should sleep in that dead man's bed or just camp on the ground. In the end he just couldn't deny himself the pleasure of _an actual bed with soft sheets and blankets, and all those nice things we are not having in the near future_ ). He rummaged around some more. He couldn't let himself leave handy things behind. He stumbled upon (sometimes quite literally) some books, wine bottles, various mechanical parts, tools (a lighter! A torchlight! A signal torch or three! A sledgehammer?), and other mostly useless things or stuff he simply couldn't carry around for long. Just as he was about to take off, he noticed something on the nightstand. It was some sort of device. Murphy tried to turn it on and huffed out a surprised laugh at what he saw on the screen. An MP3 player. It wasn't fully charged, he recognised none of the artists, but he pocketed it nonetheless. The headphones were lying utterly unperturbed in the first drawer. Next to a gun. A loaded gun. A clean gun, magazine almost full. Clean, apart from the drops of blood adorning the barrel. Murphy wiped it off in the sheets and tucked it in his pants. He grabbed some ammo for it and left every other weapon he had struggled to fit in his bag behind. He dragged his feet towards the stairs and took a final look at the bunker. The pool table, the bar, the soft armchairs, the towel slung over the armrest of the couch. He took in his fill. It wasn't enough. Fate was once again proving the point that nothing good lasted for him. Ever. Murphy reached the metal door, his teeth ground in discontentment. He vaguely wondered if the door would be open. However, it was locked, just how he had left it the night before. Ruefully he unlocked it and stepped outside.

               The harsh light was blinding. Everything felt raw and iridescent, from the colour of the water to the tremble of the leaves in the wind. He though of Jaha out there somewhere. That guy was probably talking to the trees already and admiring their beauty. Rage swelled in his chest with the promise to suffocate him if he didn't tame it. Murphy promised himself to tie him up to that staff of his and strangle him while looking at his eyes becoming increasingly dimmer. The sick fascination at the thought made the malice dissipate some. Self-pity aimed to replace it. So mourning the loss of comfort instead, he went off into the woods. As he was chopping off the branches that slapped his calves and struck his face, he remembered something and gently searched his pocket for his good new find. He couldn't wait to hear what was on it. Murphy spent a few hours looking for water until the twilight slowly settled in. The fact that he didn't find any didn't bother him for the time being, as he had some of his own still. So he found a suitable tree and climbed up into the crown. Installing himself against the trunk, he secured his backpack between two nearby branches and took out the player. He risked putting only one of the headphones in his ear, he needed to hear what was going on down there on the ground. A few songs later he was falling asleep. As he turned the thing off, the realization hit him. It felt like a punch to the gut and he almost toppled over onto the ground some 30 feet below. Mortification marred his face, his mind was reeling. He hadn't seen the MP3 the first night.  _It just hadn't been there in the first place._

**Author's Note:**

> Suggestions, criticism and comments of any kind (including incoherent and unintelligible) would be greatly appreciated.


End file.
